


all writers are born liars

by aminami



Category: Persona 5
Genre: (yes they're both writers), Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Blowjobs, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Masturbation, Novelists AU, Porn With Plot, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:01:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26452279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aminami/pseuds/aminami
Summary: “I should start by saying that I’m madly in love with you.”Akechi stares, waiting for a punchline to come. But it never does. He’s never felt more tempted to drop his charming persona just to tell the other guy to fuck off.“You mean my novels?” He asks innocently, covering up his anger with nervous laughter that he can only hope sounds like embarrassment. Embarrassment is good – it’s socially acceptable, makes him look shy, and there are people already sending curious glances their way. He needs to keep up appearances no matter how much the guy makes his skin crawl.“No,” the asshole says. He’s not even invading Akechi’s personal space, but for some unexplained reason, Akechi feels threatened. As if the curious gaze alone is capable of all but stripping him naked. “My name is Akira Kurusu, and I believe I just blatantly confessed my love for you.”In which Akechi is a successful novelist, and Akira is his greatest rival.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 44
Kudos: 264





	all writers are born liars

**Author's Note:**

> I can't express how grateful I am to [cruellae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinkabelladk/pseuds/cruellae) for being my fearless beta reader, and for her kind words of encouragement - even when I was being so very difficult. Please show her your love, this fic would be a train-wreck without her.

_The Dark Wasteland_

**Written by Ren Amamiya**

It’s surprising how empty a room can feel even when filled to the brim with people.

It’s one of many annual parties his father’s company holds to celebrate its most successful authors. This one is a little special – it’s supposed to promote Akechi’s next novel, coming out later this week. It’s more of a formality than anything, the marketing team made sure the entire town would be covered with promotional billboards, every newspaper and tv channel showed Akechi’s face.

He hates that he has to be here since it’s not even about him. It’s more of a thank you to the employees for the hard work they’ve put into publishing his novels. Not that his father cared much about his employees, but similarly to Akechi, he had appearances to keep up. 

Akechi’s first novel was published when he was only fifteen years old.

At some point, he had to grow accustomed to constant social mingling, fake laughs, terrible interviews made by people who likely didn’t spare his novel a second glance, and likely haven’t held a book in their hands since high school.

It’s not like anyone cares about what he writes as long as he keeps publishing stuff. As long as he doesn’t stop being a celebrity. He could probably announce he will now switch careers and become a porn star if that would fit his father’s agenda, and the public wouldn’t likely blink an eye.

He’d still have to endure the same pointless interviews. The same conversations devoid of any substance.

Akechi isn’t nervous. The book was in the critics’ hands for some time now, and the first reviews were published just a few days ago. They’re full of praise, as always, because why wouldn’t they be when Shido likely paid them off.

There was only one critic who said Akechi’s novel seems to be popularizing dangerous political ideologies, which happen to be connected to the Diet members supported by his father. But his words don’t mean anything in the avalanche of compliments he’s already gotten.

That guy is nothing more than a pest. A pest his father would soon likely silence.

Akechi allows himself to let out a sigh, enjoying a brief moment of respite before another person decides to strike a conversation. He lets his eyes wander aimlessly around the room.

A strange man catches his attention.

He hasn’t seen him before, which isn’t really surprising with how big Shido’s company is, and it might be that he’s someone’s plus one anyway.

Ah, that’s right. He’s seen him earlier tonight, albeit briefly. He was accompanying Sae Niijima’s sister, but they haven’t been officially introduced, so he doesn’t even know his name.

The man observes the crowd through the glass of champagne in his extended hand – Akechi can almost envision the world through his lens. The misshaped couples dancing on the floor, the bubbles bursting over their heads like silent fireworks, and…

Akechi’s silhouette apparently, since that the man is now looking at him.

Akechi pulls himself together – it would be very rude to ignore the man, once their eyes met across the room. He braces himself for the meaningless conversation, the way he always does. He straightens his back and nods with a smile, and the man approaches, leaving his glass on a random table without sparing it a second glance.

“Quite the crowd,” he says at Akechi’s side, instead of introducing himself.

His eyes scan the room briefly, before returning to stare shamelessly at Akechi’s face. He tries not to look baffled by it, but if the smirk hiding in the corner of the stranger’s mouth is any indication, he’s probably failing.

“It’s a big company,” Akechi replies slowly, unsure what to make of the stranger. “I don’t believe we’ve…”

“I should start by saying that I’m madly in love with you.”

Akechi stares, waiting for a punchline to come. But it never does. He’s never felt more tempted to drop his charming persona just to tell the other guy to fuck off.

“You mean my novels?” He asks innocently, covering up his anger with nervous laughter that he can only hope sounds like embarrassment. Embarrassment is good – it’s socially acceptable, makes him look shy, and there are people already sending curious glances their way. He needs to keep up appearances no matter how much the guy makes his skin crawl.

“No,” the asshole says. He’s not even invading Akechi’s personal space, but for some unexplained reason, Akechi feels threatened. As if the curious gaze alone is capable of all but stripping him naked. “My name is Akira Kurusu, and I believe I just _blatantly_ confessed my love for you.”

Akechi can’t help but frown and this guy – Kurusu – has the audacity to give him an amused smirk. “That’s a bold thing to say to someone you’ve just met.”

“We’ve met many times, Akechi-san.”

At least he has _some_ manners. Yet something about that smile gives him the impression that the guy’s tongue was already curling around his given name. He doesn’t know how – he just _knows_.

“This is the first time I’ve seen your face,” he says, hoping he at least sounds polite.

“I meant,” Kurusu takes a step closer. “In your novels.”

He doesn’t know why nature betrays him by suddenly defying all its laws – it’s as if the Earth completely stopped moving on its axis, forcing everything to an abrupt halt. He wasn’t the one to move, yet he finds himself standing much closer. He didn’t trip, but his hands are suddenly gripping Kurusu’s shoulders for support, with the guy’s arm securely behind his back to keep him steady.

It’s like being pulled by an invisible rope, his hands neatly tied in front of him by an unseen force.

“Do you see now?” Kurusu smiles, all cat-like, and it makes Akechi’s stomach flip. “It’s fate.”  
  


* * *

  
When he wakes up the next day, he tries not to think too hard about everything that happened last night. His brain is all but begging him to replay the conversation he’s had with that random stranger, and then _the other_ _stuff_ , like a broken record, but he is a professional, so he manages to resist the temptation.

_Call me Akira._

Fuck.

He strips off of his nightclothes, letting them drop to the floor. He catches the reflection of his naked form in the mirror for a second, and he furrows his eyebrows when he spies an offensive hickey right on his hip bone.

_There. Think of it as my bookmark._

His house is eerily quiet, which isn’t exactly unusual, but it’s a contrast to how loud the inside of his head is, despite his best efforts at silencing the distracting thoughts. It bothers him more than usual.

In the bathroom, he avoids his own reflection as he scrubs himself clean, hoping to wash off Akira’s scent and touch from his body. Despite his better judgment, he rubs the skin on his hip so hard that it gets irritated, but somehow it gives him a strange feeling of satisfaction, even if he could never wash it off his body.

His morning routine might be long, but it gives him something to do with his hands, and right now it’s the one thing he desperately needs. He starts with his hair, making sure it falls on his shoulder in a way that looks natural, even if he spent the last hour trying to make it appear that way.

Then he gets on with the makeup. Akechi sighs in relief upon seeing his own face in the mirror after applying concealer.

Yes, that’s the face he’s used to seeing. That’s the face everyone wants. It’s the face he deserves.

He notices something on the bathroom floor, and he bends over to pick it up. It’s a scrap of paper with someone’s handwriting on it.

_“In the dark wasteland of our own making, you’ll pick me up from our barren Eden, and drop me into the pits of hell.”_

_Call me. XXX-XXX-XXX_

Akechi shakes his head. It must have fallen out from his pocket after he stumbled into his apartment half-drunk, and half-in love, still in denial about everything that happened.

To think he’d quote his favorite novel, too. Maybe it really was fate.

So he had a quickie in the bathroom with a complete stranger, and Akechi definitely isn’t going to think about it.

A stranger who also claimed to be hopelessly in love with him.

He’s an adult, so he should just forget about it. Except he is thinking about it, and he groans because he really doesn’t have time to take care of his needs. He’s already gotten dressed as well.

He sighs, letting the memory surround him like a thick fog.

_“You have no idea how many times I imagined doing this to you.”_

_Kurusu takes his time with him like they’re not in public where anyone can walk in on them any second. He mouths at Akechi’s erection through his underwear, and finally, finally, pulls it down Akechi’s legs, and Akechi hisses once the cold air hits his cock. Kurusu leans in to give it a curious lick._

_“You’re one of my fans, then?” Akechi asks casually as if he’s not about to lose his mind just from Akira’s tongue swirling around the head of his cock._

_“You could say that,” he replies vaguely before swallowing his length._

_He still doesn’t know who Kurusu is, but he comes to the conclusion that he might be an escort. It would only make sense, since he seems to know exactly what Akechi likes, almost as if he’s reading his mind._

_Then again, there’s no way someone so uptight as Makoto Niijima would be brave enough to bring an escort to a company party._

_But what if he’s some sort of psychopath? What if he’s secretly recording this, and intends to sell it to the media? Akechi did follow him to the bathroom after all, what if he planned all this to…_

_“You’re thinking too much. Am I not doing well?”_

_He makes the mistake of looking downwards, and he can’t help but moan seeing Kurusu’s perfect plush lips stretched around his cock, his cheeks flushed, and some locks sticking to his sweaty forehead. His hand moves on its own, and he brushes them away, and Kurusu all but purrs around his cock, the sensation making him buck his hips until he hits the back of his throat._

_“Shit. Sorry, Kurusu.”_

_Kurusu pulls away with a wet pop, completely unfazed. “Call me Akira. We’re lovers, after all.”_

_And then he takes him into his mouth again, and Akechi realizes that everything up until now was just a warmup before the final act._

_“A-ah-Akira!” Akechi whimpers, grabbing Akira’s stray locks as he can’t help but thrust into the warm mouth, fucking into it earnestly. Akira doesn’t seem to mind, humming appreciatively around his length, swallowing Akechi’s come, and licking his lips after._

Akechi slowly comes to terms with the fact that he will need to jerk off unless he wants to embarrass himself in public when the one person with the magical ability to always ruin his day calls, and for once he’s grateful for her nagging. Now he definitely won’t be able to think about sex.

“Tell me you’re on your way to the studio,” Sae Niijima says, not even bothering to say hello.

He rolls his eyes. The woman certainly doesn’t waste her time. Perhaps that’s why she was appointed as Akechi’s assistant. “Good morning to you too, Niijima-san. How are you doing today?”

Maybe if she had a quickie in the bathroom with a handsome stranger, she wouldn’t act like everyone else around her doesn’t have a personal life. God, he hates her.

Considering Sae successfully managed to divert his attention from his distracting thoughts, he’s ready to go out, but something about her tone makes him so annoyed he decides to be late out of spite. He sits down on the couch, picking up the morning newspaper that he hasn’t had the time to read.

“We don’t have time for pleasantries,” she barks at him, and Akechi raises his eyebrow. It wasn’t like her to be so rude unless something serious happened. With a sigh, he lets the newspaper drop from his hand.

“What’s going on? Another tabloid?”

“Worse. Looks like Amamiya’s new novel will come out on the same day as yours.”

“So?” Akechi tries to sound uninterested when in reality his heart is already beating faster. “That guy is nothing compared to me. The public won’t spare his book a second glance.”

“His publisher said that a day before the premiere, he’ll show his face to the public. He’ll be interviewed tomorrow on national television for the very first time.”

Okay. This is pretty bad.

Akechi runs his fingers through his hair. To think that just a few minutes ago his biggest worry was whether or not he had time to masturbate before work.

The worst part is that he has no doubt in his mind that his own publisher will do everything in their power to turn Amamiya’s big reveal into a fiasco. After all, his father can achieve pretty much anything once he puts his mind to it. Even if he has to use less than legal means to win.

Of course, no one knows that he is Shido Masayoshi’s son. Not even Sae Niijima.

He decides how to convey the message without sounding suspicious.

“Surely, we shouldn’t worry about it.”

“I like your confidence,” Niijima replies in a voice that seems to be saying otherwise. “I always did. But do you really not realize how big that name is? That’s why I want you to do your very best today.”

“All that matters is that it’s not bigger than my name,” Akechi says calmly. “And I always do my very best. Don’t worry, I’ll get to the studio on time. I’ll talk about my novel, smile the way I always do, and it will all work out.”

“Someday people might get tired of your smile,” Niijima says coldly. It kicks him straight in the guts.

“It’s your job to make sure that they don’t,” he reminds her. “I’ll be on my way.”

He hangs up before she can come up with a snarky retort.

_Do you really not realize how big that name is?_

How could he not?

It’s all abuzz in the literary world.

The man is an enigma – he rarely allows himself to be interviewed, and even then no one’s allowed to see him. Each novel he’s written is completely different from the other, his style ever-changing and evolving like some strange hybrid. He flips smoothly through the genres, holding them in his hand like a deck of cards.

Akechi despises most of Amamiya’s writing. It’s shallow, carefree, funny where it shouldn’t be, each book violating every rule of professional writing. He has no idea why people read that bullshit or how he got someone to publish his novels in the first place.

Still, not every one of them is bad.

His latest novel is the most pretentious piece of literature Akechi’s ever read, and he hates just how much he loves it.

Akechi was never fond of magical realism, but Ren Amamiya seems to have some special power over him that’s able to enthrall him with pretty much any idea that goes through his head. It was oneiric and unlike anything, Akechi’s ever read.

It tells the story of a burned-out salaryman, who in his dreams travels through fantasy lands as a means to escape his everyday ennui. But just like in his grey reality, even in dreams he’s completely alone. Eventually, his loneliness makes the fantasy world collapse, but then he finds happiness in reality. Ill-suited ending for such an amazing book.

He’s not a better writer than Akechi. Obviously, he’s not. Whenever he reads Amamiya’s books, he bookmarks every passage that should be written differently, viciously encircling paragraphs he doesn’t like with a pencil.

He’d give anything to meet the guy in person. And to show him exactly what it means to be a good writer. He’d point out every single plot hole, every unnecessary paragraph. He’d tell him just how much time Akechi wasted reading his horrible, messy stories, and if the guy is smart – which Akechi imagines he is because he’s already appointed him as his rival – he’ll be thankful and beg Akechi to study under him.

He would then mentor Amamiya, a man that he imagines to be younger than himself. At first, he’d say no, he is a busy man, after all. But perhaps with time, if Amamiya proved to be persistent…

There are, of course, some passages he does like. That hit way too close to home for his liking, almost as if they were written by a kindred spirit. It’s like having a hand stretch out from the pages, grabbing him by the wrist to pull him into this world only he can fully understand.

He has no doubt in his mind that Amamiya’s books were written for him specifically.

They’ve never met and yet, he’s able to tell without a hint of uncertainty. He’s the only one able to fully appreciate them. He’s the only one allowed to hate them. He’s the only reader that matters.

He knows he’s late, but he can’t help but grab Amamiya’s book from the shelf. Like a traitor to his taste, it opens on the page he’s already read too many times, exposing that he cares about this nobody’s writing just a little too much.

The passage might as well be forever ingrained in his brain, so he doesn’t even need to carefully read it to recall the scene. His eyes still skim over words, just for that intimate feeling of being alone with Amamiya’s mind.

He hates how it always makes him shiver, and he twitches under his clothes to get rid of goosebumps.

_The snow appears under his feet with every step he takes. He feels strange, walking through this land of eternal spring, a grim harbinger of the upcoming death for every green being, naïve enough to peek out from its safe haven._

_He wants nothing more than for this place to become a wasteland. He wants to rule over no one in particular, as he sits on his icy throne, answering to no one. He wants to hear no prayers directed at him. He does not have a need for subjects, and no need for advisors. He is completely alone._

_He wants to be the king because a king answers to no one. Just this once, he wants to decide his own fate. To that end, he will stop at nothing. With his hands, full of kindness in their cruelty, he’ll take this world apart piece by piece._

He’s almost grateful that Amamiya never appears on TV, and he does so few interviews. If Akechi were to put it into words, he feels a little possessive whenever he finds himself thinking about the other writer. He hates that other people read his novels. How could they, when they were written for Akechi’s eyes alone? It almost feels like sacrilege.

He briefly wonders what would happen if he tried to reach out to Amamiya – would he agree if he found out who Akechi was? _Naturally_ , his mind tells him. There’s no way Amamiya doesn’t hold him in the highest regard.

He wonders if he should in any way acknowledge his rival in the interview.

Surely, there must already be first reviews of Amamiya’s novel, but he decides not to look them up. For some reason, he’s convinced it would only put him in a foul mood.

He wants his self-appointed rival to challenge him, but not at the cost of his own fame. And he definitely doesn’t need Shido’s help to be able to prove it.

With that comforting thought in mind, Akechi leaves the house.  
  


* * *

  
He almost flops the interview.

Of course, no one would ever dare to say that to him. But he knows. He can sense pity through their fake, paid-off smiles.

No one asks him about Ren Amamiya, and he’s sure Shido was the one who told them not to. There was no point in drawing even more attention to his name.

Still, Akechi was distracted the whole time, a weird itching on his hip driving him insane, and making him stop mid-sentence at the most inconvenient moments.

“Forgive me,” he says, looking sheepishly at the presenter through his eyelashes and biting his lower lip. He practiced that look enough in the mirror just for occasions such as this one. “My mind is always drifting towards new ideas, and sometimes I let myself be pulled away to the world of my imagination. It seems I can never really stop writing, not even in my own head.”

He laughs nervously, making sure the camera gets his best angle. The presenter gives him a sympathetic look, but he knows she’s happy about his reaction. They both know where the conversation is heading.

“I was starting to believe you’re so distracted because there’s someone occupying your mind. Tell me, is there someone you’ve silently dedicated your works to?”

“Ah,” he lowers his face because it’s easier to fake a blush when he does. “There are so many beautiful women in this world, I’m sure they could very well become someone’s muse. But the truth is, I’m married to my work. I can’t let the quality of my novels suffer for romance.”

He puts a hand to his chin pensively.

“Still, I’ve always considered myself to be a romantic. Perhaps someday, I’ll see my soulmate somewhere in the crowd, and then my novels will only benefit from that fresh air of inspiration she’s going to bring into my life. I’m sure there’s someone out there who’ll someday make me a happy man.”

That’s right – make them hopeful. Make them believe that they could very well become the one.

Women make up most of his readership, after all.

He does his best to look embarrassed. “Please pay me no mind! I’ve come here to talk about my novel, and here I am rambling like a love-struck fool…”

“To think there are people who still believe in love at first sight! You truly are a remarkable young man, Akechi-san!”

Fake laughter, faker smiles.

The skin on his hip itches, but he forces himself to ignore it.

Predictably, after the interview, Niijima grabs him by the elbow to lead him towards an empty corridor. He’s not used to fuck-ups, but he braces himself for her critique.

“What the hell was that?” She hisses. “It’s not like you to be so distracted. Is this the great performance you promised me this morning?”

He weighs the pros and cons of telling her that maybe, just maybe, he would be in a better mood if he managed to jerk off before he left. That maybe he’s so stressed out because his calendar is filled until at least next year. That maybe a quickie at a company party is the best he can get.

It certainly would be nice to see the look on her face if he could say it, but he can’t risk someone hearing them.

Besides, who knows. The sheer discovery that some people need stress relievers, and not all of them are goal-oriented sleep-deprived robots, might put her into a cardiac arrest.

“Sorry, I guess Amamiya is weighing on my mind more than I thought he would.”

He’s good at playing her too. He always has been. Besides, it’s always best to tell a half-truth rather than a lie. There is _someone_ weighing on his mind, after all.

“I’m sorry,” she says surprisingly softly, and it almost makes him feel guilty. Almost. “I shouldn’t have told you right before the interview. I didn’t mean to put so much pressure on you.”

Akechi starts suspecting he’s not the only one hiding something. “What else happened?”

“You sure you want to know?” She looks torn. “You’re not going to be happy about it.”

Akechi rolls his eyes. There’s nothing he hates more than people handling him with kid’s gloves. “Just spit it out.”

He can see the gears of Sae’s mind turning as she puts a hand to her chin, weighing her own pros and cons.

“Amamiya’s publisher reached out to us,” she tells him eventually after a moment of silence. “And he wants to meet you.”

“Tell him to go fuck himself.”

“Mind your language,” she mutters. “We’re still in public. Sometimes you still act like the brat I met over a decade ago.”

Akechi doesn’t care. He already knows what she’s going to ask out of him. “You want me to do it.”

“I already canceled your meetings this afternoon. I think it might be beneficial for all of us if you got to know the competition.”

“So he wants to see me today? Eager, isn’t he?”

“Actually, it was me who insisted it should be today,” Sae admits. “It would be best if you found out what he’s like before tomorrow’s interview. It could give us an advantage.”

As if that’s gonna do any good. What does she expect him to do? Poison him?

Perhaps it’s not such a bad idea. He’s done worse.

Akechi rubs his temples. “Fine. I’ll meet him. Which restaurant?”

Sae looks troubled for a moment, and it’s _never_ a good sign when she does. He already regrets agreeing to this.

“Actually…”  
  


* * *

  
For some reason, it makes sense for Ren Amamiya to meet him at a place like this.

It’s a small rundown café in the backstreets of Yongen-Jaya, a place he normally wouldn’t be caught dead in. It’s a strange place, squeezed between the buildings, almost as if it took offense at being noticeable, not unlike Ren Amamiya himself.

Akechi stops for a second to look at it, but no matter how long he stares, he can’t see the appeal.

Maybe it’s Amamiya’s way of humiliating him? Maybe it’s his way of saying that he doesn’t value Akechi’s writing? Akechi would never stoop so low. Even if the other writer’s very existence irked him, he still would have the decency to invite him to a five-star restaurant. It’s called manners.

A movement catches his attention, somewhere in the corner of his eye.

A black cat is staring at him from a corner, and Akechi can’t shake the feeling that it doesn’t like what it sees. Its tail sways left and right, the cat watching his every movement.

He briefly recalls one of Amamiya’s earlier novels called “The View from My Rooftop,” written entirely from a cat’s point of view. A silly, childish story. A waste of Amamiya’s talent. Akechi never particularly liked it.

As if reading his thoughts, the cat hisses at him before vanishing into the alley. While not particularly against animals, he feels sudden hostility towards the small resident of Café Leblanc. He has a strange thought that the creature likely stepped out straight from the pages of the novel just to intimidate him, and it puts him in a bad mood.

Akechi looks at his phone to check the time. He sighs, fixing his hair in the screen’s reflection. In the end, there is only so much stalling he can do.

He opens the door and the quiet jingle of the doorbell transfers him into another world.

While poorly lit, the inside of the café is surprisingly warm and homey. There’s no one there but a young man in a green apron, his back turned towards the entrance as he watches the news. He turns upon the sound of the closing door, smiling pleasantly.

He knows this man.

“Welcome to Café Leblanc,” Kurusu says. “You didn’t call me, Akechi-san.”

He doesn’t pout, and he doesn’t seem too upset about it. He clearly knew Akechi wasn’t going to call him in the first place. Just like last time, everything is unfolding as if he already had a script for everything that was about to happen. 

Akechi narrows his eyes, immediately dropping his polite act. “What are _you_ doing here, Kurusu?”

“Working,” the man gestures for him to sit down, and a part of Akechi wants nothing more than to get out, but his legs move against his will, as he sits himself down on one of the barstools by the counter. “And I believe I asked you to call me by my given name.”

“The circumstances were… different then.”

“I won’t repeat what I did that night,” Kurusu, _fine_ , Akira admits. “But I can make you a nice cup of coffee. Does that buy me first-name privileges?”

“Depends on how good it is.”

Akechi reaches to his pocket, but Akira stops him with a single gaze. “Don’t bother, it’s on the house. Let me guess what you like.”

“If you’ve read the magazines like the stalker you are, you already know what I like.”

“You lied in the magazines though,” Akira points out blatantly. “You don’t like sweet things. I know as much from your books.”

“I never said…”

“ _In the black swirling abyss, I saw his light heading towards oblivion_ ,” Akira quotes. It’s from Akechi’s last novel. “You take your coffee with no sugar. Just a tint of cream.”

Akechi can’t help but snicker. “That’s a very stupid assumption to make.”

“Am I wrong?”

He’s not. Akechi accepts the coffee.

“You never asked me what _I’m_ doing here,” Akechi points out, and Akira smiles as if he was waiting for him to ask.

“I already know what you’re doing here. After all, I was the one to invite you.”

The cup falls from Akechi’s hand and shatters on the counter. Akira doesn’t flinch, because of course, he knew it was going to happen. He picks up the pieces carefully and throws them away, while Akechi still sits there frozen, his brain refusing to make the terrifying connection.

Akira comes back with a cleaning cloth, wiping the counter while examining Akechi from a distance. “I’m relieved the cup was mostly empty. I really didn’t want you to get dirty. I kept a spare shirt for you upstairs, just in case.”

Akechi has never been more confused in his life.

Standing in front of him, cleaning the counter was Ren Amamiya – award-winning novelist, likely the only writer in all of Japan with the potential to surpass Akechi.

Not only that, he was likely either incredibly perceptive or downright psychic, and somehow Akechi would have an easier time accepting the latter.

Akira-Ren fixes him another cup of coffee as if nothing happened. “It’s a different blend, but I think you’ll find it to your liking.”

He takes a sip, too stunned to be able to do anything else. “It’s exquisite.”

“I’m glad,” Akira beams earnestly, and it’s been a while since Akechi saw a person whose smile actually reached their eyes. “It’s one of my favorites.”

He watches him in silence.

“I’m sorry to have kept you in the dark the first time we met,” Akira continues after a moment, leaning on the counter. “Makoto – you’ve met her, I believe – told me about the party, and she said that you were going to be there. No one knows my face, so I decided to come as her companion.”

“Industrial espionage?” Akechi asks, his throat still dry.

“Of course not,” Akira replies, somewhat wounded. “I just really wanted to meet you.”

“You could have told your agent to contact mine anytime like you did today.”

Akira shakes his head. “We were meant to meet at that party.”

Of course. Fate again.

Now that he thinks about it, it’s a recurring theme in Amamiya’s novels, one that he found the most annoying.

“Besides,” Akira goes on, oblivious to the storm raging inside Akechi’s head. “I wanted you to meet Akira, the barista, not Ren, the novelist. I wanted you to fall in love with him first.”

“I’m not in love with you.”

This guy is either an idiot or he’s downright crazy. Either way, Akechi is getting tired of his act.

“Which one of you is real?” He decides to ask before Akira says something even more confusing.

“Can’t we just assume both of them are?” Akira cocks his head. “But if that helps, Ren Amamiya is a pen name. My real name is Akira Kurusu, and that’s the name I want you to know. I’ve never lied to you, Akechi.”

“You’re not going to ask me if my name is real?”

“I already know it is. You never accepted your father’s name after all, isn’t that right?”

It’s the mention of Shido that does it.

“How do you know so much?” Akechi snarls, unable to keep his temper in check. “Just who the fuck are you?”

He hates that Akira doesn’t look fazed by anything he does. He hates that he seems to be the one in control, despite being just a nobody. He hates that he knows so much about him when Akechi knows nothing about him.

“I’m just someone who really admires your work,” Akira says calmly. “I’m someone who loves you.”

Akechi is so frustrated he wants to smash another coffee cup. But likely, Akira would be prepared for that, too. So he resorts to gripping the edge of the counter, just to keep his hands from shaking.

“I’m assuming there’s a reason you wanted to see me today, and it’s not just to piss me off.”

At least he sounds calmer than he actually feels.

“You’re right,” Akira’s eyes briefly drift to his hands, before coming to a decision. “But first, I want your honest opinion. What do you think about my writing style?”

Akechi doesn’t know how to handle the question. He doesn’t know why Akira, or Ren, or whoever he is, would need his opinion, much less his approval.

He almost laughs thinking about how just the other night he imagined mentoring his fated rival who turned out to be some café barista.

“Do you really need my input?”

“I just wonder how much you know about me,” Akira asks, ambiguous as ever.

“It’s awful.”

Akira smiles as if that’s the greatest compliment he’s ever heard. “So you don’t like my novels?”

Akechi didn’t say that.

“I think they’re pretty cliché,” he forces himself to say with no actual desire to elaborate. “Don’t you think Natsume Sōseki already said everything that needs to be said about talking cats?”

“I beg to disagree,” Akira replies, sitting next to him, and for some reason, he feels more vulnerable without the counter separating them. “It’s like saying that Conan Doyle said everything that needs to be said about detective novels.”

“That might very well be true,” Akechi shrugs, instinctively moving slightly away from Akira’s side. “I don’t particularly care, I stopped writing detective novels a long time ago.”

Akira doesn’t say anything in response, waiting for Akechi to break the silence with a curious smile, like a cat ready to pounce. Long minutes pass in complete silence, and Akechi’s never known silence to be so loud.

He doesn’t know what Akira’s trying to achieve. Does he really think it’s enough to entice him? Does he think that by staying quiet he’d get Akechi to talk? Does he think it’s so easy to have him speak his mind when he spent over a decade practicing what other people want him to say?

It is enough because apparently, Akechi is an idiot.

“God, you piss me off,” he snaps. “Your style is so inconsistent, it’s like you’re a five-year-old in a sweet shop unable to resist whatever’s colorful and shiny enough to catch your attention. It’s like you forget people pay their hard-earned money to read this crap. You always leave open endings, you’re bad at getting your point across because guess what, you don’t actually have a point, since you’re full of _shit_.”

“It’s honestly amazing to me that you’ve managed to publish so much of your crap. Is your publishing company just hellbent on bankruptcy or is the general public this stupid? And would you do us all a favor and stick to one goddamn genre? It’s really sad to see you embarrass yourself every time you try something different.”

Akechi realizes he hasn’t taken a deep breath in a long time, but he’s not quite done.

“Oh, and your last novel? You really were hitting something there, and then you decided to screw it up with that shitty happy ending. The one time you do decide to tie up your absolute mess of a plot, you do it in the most obvious and disgustingly sugar-coated way possible.”

It’s only then that Akira interrupts him, looking both amused and slightly overwhelmed. “Really? You didn’t like it?”

Akechi closes his mouth. Now that he’s let it all out, he starts to feel a little stupid, so he might as well give Akira credit where it’s due.

“I guess it wasn’t _that_ bad for your novel. It’s just that I find it incredibly pretentious.”

“That’s funny,” Akira chuckles. “Because it was largely inspired by your own writing.”

“I’m not pretentious.”

Akira snorts. “Sure you are. You might act like an absolute fool in your interviews, but the truth is, you’d need a philosophy degree to even begin to scratch the surface of some of your novels. It’s an entire web of hidden meanings, a puzzle that you think you’re the only one able to crack.”

Akechi blinks because no one ever had the guts to call him a fool.

“And you cracked all of it, did you?”

Akira observes him for a moment. “You don’t think highly of your novels, do you?”

It takes Akechi by surprise. “What do you mean?”

“Let me rephrase it then,” Akira leans closer and this time Akechi doesn’t move away. “You like all the perks of being a writer. But it’s not what you’d actually want your writing to be.”

“If that were true,” Akechi forces himself to relax, as he leans in even closer, accepting the challenge. “Then I wouldn’t sign them with my real name. Unlike some people, I’m not a coward who hides behind a pen name.”

“I already said that I know you,” Akira says, grinning, and it takes all of Akechi’s willpower not to punch him in the face. “I know your soul. I know all your lies just from the sentences you so carefully craft while trying to fool everyone that you believe in them.”

Akechi briefly wonders about the extent of what Akira knows about Shido, but just to be safe, he decides not to ask about it.

“It’s what writers do,” he says instead. “ _We_ lie.”

For once, it’s Akira who looks surprised. “I’m not lying.”

“Really? For someone who claimed to be in love with me, you certainly hate my novels.”

“Never said I hated them,” Akira corrects him. “I said _you_ hated them. Which by the way, I think is just silly. They’re great novels, regardless of what you believe.”

_Silly._

“Well, this was fun,” he said getting up. “But unlike you, I’m a busy person. Thank you for completely wasting my time.”

He doesn’t really mean it. He did have fun, and the coffee was exquisite. In some other reality, he’d likely return some other time.

“Akechi,” Akira stops him in the doorway. “In truth, the only reason why I asked you here was for you to give me advice. I think you’re the only qualified to.”

Akechi pauses.

“Do you think I’m making the right call showing my face to the public?”

He turns to look at Akira who suddenly looks a little younger and more vulnerable. Akechi almost pities him, because he remembers times when he’d see a similar expression in the mirror.

_No. Shido’s going to destroy you. Just like he destroyed everyone else who tried to surpass me._

“Good luck tomorrow,” he offers instead of answering. “You’re going to need it.”

On his way home, he assures Shido through a text that the meeting with Amamiya went fine, but it doesn’t seem like he’s going to be a threat to his career.

Shido doesn’t reply, but he never does.  
  


* * *

  
The next day is filled with meetings, and he almost misses Akira’s interview.

Luckily, it’s been scheduled for the evening, so he still manages to get home in time to catch at least some of it. He barely uses the TV other than to watch reruns of his own interviews to make sure his acting is nothing short of impeccable.

For the first time, he’ll be watching somebody else, and he doesn’t know why he puts himself through this. Maybe he just wants more proof that Akira’s lesser than him.

It doesn’t matter anyway. He has nothing to worry about, he never did. He finds the right channel and he forces himself to relax.

“So you decided to keep your real name a mystery,” the presenter says, a professional smile slapped to her face like duct tape. “Is there any special meaning behind the characters you’ve chosen for your pen name?”

Akira looks uncomfortable, completely out of place in his basic jeans and a t-shirt. He still manages to keep his answers to the point, despite the obvious embarrassment, and it pisses Akechi off to see him so collected. His first interview wasn’t as smooth as this.

“The kanji for Ren used in my name means lotus, and if you’ve read my novels, surely you understand the symbolism behind it. As for Amamiya, it’s my mother’s maiden name.”

“I never caught that, that’s so interesting!”

Akira-Ren visibly scowls, as if he finds her reaction repulsive. He probably does, because he doesn’t belong to this world as Akechi does.

The interview goes on.

“I’m not all that good with computers,” Akira rubs his neck awkwardly. “I grew up with no access to the internet, so I ended up using my grandfather’s old typewriter when I wrote my early stories. I still use it to this day, but I mostly write by hand.”

“How old-school!”

Poser. Pretentious dickhead.

Akechi can’t do this sober.

“What’s so hard about using a motherfucking computer?” Akechi mutters to himself, on his way to the kitchen.

He opens a bottle of wine, the one Sae told him to keep for special occasions. It’s ridiculously expensive and has a bitter taste, which is exactly what Akechi values about wine. For some reason, he’s sure Ren wouldn’t appreciate such an acquired taste. He seems so immature.

Akechi goes back to the living room and briefly considers turning the lights on, but he decides against it. He doesn’t want to ruin the intimate atmosphere of finally having Ren Amamiya just to himself on his TV. He doesn’t even bother to bring himself a glass, so he sits down on the couch, observing his rival with his eyes narrowed, taking sip after sip straight from the bottle. Fake laughter erupts from the audience.

He hates television. He hates Ren. Akira. Whatever.

He hates how the audience already eats out of his hand, when clearly, _clearly,_ he’s never rehearsed any of his lines. He’s just saying what he actually thinks – the audacity of it makes Akechi tremble with anger. That awkward writer spiel is going to work out well for him, that much is certain. Akechi’s been a part of that world since his early teens, he knows how to drive the public wild.

What Akechi hates most, however, is that everything he said so far was likely the truth. He tries to remember the last time he didn’t have to lie in an interview, but he’s drawing a blank.

The more he drinks, the less he’s able to focus on Ren’s words – instead, he looks at _how_ he talks. Ren doesn’t take long to answer each question, barely stumbling over words. He’s definitely not the talkative type, he gets straight to the point, keeping his answers short, if not laconic. The opposite of how he acted when Akechi met him.

His words from _that_ night ring in his ears again.

_You’re so good for me. Did you know that I spent the whole evening thinking about getting on my knees for you? And now here we are._

Akechi’s grip tightens on the bottle.

_Whenever I saw you on TV, I’d imagine being there in the audience, and then following you to your dressing room just to suck you off. I’d swallow your come, so you wouldn’t have to worry about cleaning yourself. But then you’d take me to your apartment, and you’d fuck me raw or you’d come all over my face, I’d do anything, anything…_

He looks again at the man on his screen. Maybe this is where Ren ends, and Akira begins.

He’s hard because of course, he is, but he chooses to ignore it, even if the sound of Ren’s baritone goes straight to his dick whenever he talks.

“…kechi…”

Did they just mention his name?

He straightens up and turns up the volume, diving for the remote so fast he almost spills the wine all over his expensive couch. Whatever the question was, Ren looks troubled by it.

“I think he’s a very talented writer.”

So they _are_ talking about him.

“He’s been a great inspiration to me,” Ren continues, adjusting his glasses. “As I said, I grew up in a small town, there wasn’t much to do in my free time. I was just a teen and he was already publishing his books then, though they weren’t nearly as popular as they are now.”

It takes Akechi by surprise. There are few people who have been following his career since the very beginning. He finds himself cringing whenever he thinks about his earliest detective novels, so of course, Ren decides to bring it up.

“I love his early works so much more than what he writes now. They had so much hope to them, almost as if Akechi-san let his heart run free. They’ve been a great comfort to me during my lonely nights in the middle of nowhere.”

Akechi can’t help but think that this is the most talkative Ren’s been all evening.

And then he thinks about how those plush lips were wrapped around his cock just the other night. He drinks some more then. God, what is wrong with him.

“Cut the flowery crap and tell me what you think about me now,” he snarls, adjusting himself in his pants. Ren complies.

“I feel like with every novel he’s written, things get darker and darker. With his latest works, I can hardly tell they’ve been written by the same person. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a great writer. But if he were only able to stay true to himself, rather than trying to please people’s expectations of him… He’d be unstoppable.”

“Sounds like you’re challenging him,” the presenter says excitedly. “Are you sure you’ll be able to surpass him?”

“I believe I already have,” Ren says, looking straight at the camera.

It’s very brief and Akechi is _very_ drunk, but he sees it. A confident smirk aimed directly at him.

He turns off the TV and the room becomes completely dark.

For a moment, he doesn’t let his emotions get to him. He finishes his wine in the darkness, somehow manages to drag himself upstairs to the bedroom – if he stumbles, it’s definitely not because he drank too much, he’s still completely in control – and then he throws himself on the bed, still wearing his wrinkly clothes.

He should go to the bathroom and at least wash off his makeup. He really should.

He shoves his hand into his boxers instead.

It’s a relief to finally get a hand on his cock, after he failed to take care of his needs yesterday morning, and then he refused to jerk off to Ren’s image on the TV – because no, he wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

It’s frustrating because he’s drunk, his hand is too dry, and he’s more pissed off than horny. Which only gets him angrier and he almost gives up then.

And then he thinks about Akira, not Ren, and his body loses some of the tension. He somehow manages to get the nightstand’s drawer to open, and he finds a mostly unused bottle of lube. It’s not like he’s a virgin, but with how busy he gets being both a writer and a celebrity, he rarely gets a chance to enjoy getting off.

He doesn’t know what makes it better – the slick lube on his cock or the fact that he’s thinking about Akira, one way or another, he’s hard again and he thinks about the fantasy Akira had, except this time, it’s Akechi surprising Akira, no, _Ren_ , in the dressing room, and he bets the asshole would be surprised, because why wouldn’t he – to see his teenage inspiration ready to suck his cock like it’s nothing.

Except, Akechi is not as easy as Akira was in his own fantasy. Akechi would make him beg for it before getting on his knees, and then he’d make sure that every lick, every bob of his head is not enough to push Ren over the edge. Ren would still get there eventually – because why wouldn’t he when Akechi’s on his knees for him – so he’d wait for him to be close and pull out when he’s about to come.

And then he’d fuck him right there without bothering to take him home – why would he take him home, when he’s already got all that he wanted? When he’s already proven superiority? When he already made sure Ren won’t think about anything other than his name?

He almost doesn’t feel pathetic when he comes into his own hand, but the leftover regret he’s feeling can wait until tomorrow morning.

He curls into a ball without bothering to clean himself up, and when he falls asleep, he manages not to dream about his rival.  
  


* * *

  
It always happens the same way.

A call from Shido Masayoshi.

He’ll answer, but he won’t speak. He’s never allowed to speak first.

Sometimes he’ll get a notepad to make sure he remembers everything Shido wants him to include in his next novel, statement, interview, or a fucking birthday card sent to some president’s daughter that he’s likely going to marry at some point to further another of Shido’s plans. He always needs to follow his plans to the dot.

At least he doesn’t need to care about carrying the family legacy, since Shido refuses to officially acknowledge him as his son. Akechi shudders at the thought of having children.

He never allows the phone to ring for too long before picking it up. Sometimes he wakes up sensing a call from Shido just a second before it happens. He’s very well-trained, after all.

It’s not different this time. He picks up, patiently waiting for Shido to start.

“I keep having to clean up your screw-ups, but today is your lucky day.”

He doesn’t know if it’s the hangover, or simply a side-effect of hearing his father’s voice first thing in the morning, but he already has a headache.

He also tries not to think about how he fell asleep covered in his own filth, and now he’s sticky and comfortable, _and_ he has to endure whatever bullshit agenda Shido wants to push onto him now.

He still doesn’t speak. He wasn’t asked a question.

“Have you seen the morning newspaper?” Shido asks and Akechi doesn’t need to see his face to know that he’s smiling. “You may reply.”

Akechi has a bad feeling because Shido is never happy for the right reasons, but he knows better than to show anxiety when talking to his father. “Not yet. I haven’t been downstairs.”

“Then check the first news website you can think of on your phone. Everyone’s talking about it.”

“Talking about what?”

“That _worthless_ writer. You know who.”

No names. Ever.

It’s not that Shido is scared of the phone calls being tapped when half of the police force already does his bidding. In Shido Masayoshi’s case, the truth is always simple and unsophisticated. No, the reason why he never brings up any names is that he never remembers them. That’s how much of a pest Ren is in the grand scheme of things. It makes Akechi’s stomach turn.

_Ren Amamiya. Akira Kurusu._

Somehow just saying it in his head makes Akechi feel better.

“Then he’s been taken care of,” he says just to make sure.

“Stop stating the obvious,” Shido scolds him. “But yes, you could say that. He’s getting all the attention now, just like he wanted.”

Akechi furrows his eyebrows. Something doesn’t sound right. “If he’s getting media’s attention, then why are you happy?”

“See for yourself.”

Shido hangs up, leaving Akechi with a heavy feeling of unease blossoming in his chest. He stares at his phone like it’s a ticking bomb.

If Shido’s happy, then that means they did something to hurt Akira. He’s still not sure how he feels about him, but he definitely didn’t mean to put him in harm’s way. Besides, as Akira’s rival, he’d want nothing more than to be able to find him on an equal footing.

As if that were possible with the number of people Shido bought to make Akechi famous. But he could still delude himself he actually has talent.

Akechi forces himself to look at the news, and just like his father said, Akira’s picture greets him from the first headline.

It’s a mugshot, and knowing what the real Akira looks like, he can see the amount of photoshop used to make him look like a dangerous criminal.

**The dark past of Ren Amamiya – is the famous writer a criminal on the run?**

_It’s only been a few years since Ren Amamiya (28) took the literary world by storm with his first novel “The View from the Rooftop.” With his first appearance on national television, he caused quite a stir, challenging a fellow accomplished writer, Goro Akechi (29) with a bold claim of being able to surpass him._

_Our police source claims that Ren Amamiya’s actual name is Akira Kurusu, arrested for assault at the age of seventeen. While he was cleared of the charges…_

He doesn’t get to finish the article. Niijima’s name shows up on his screen, and he can’t help but roll his eyes.

“I already know,” he says, picking up.

“Whoever’s done it, they went too far,” Sae sighs. Akechi doesn’t say anything, his mouth forming a line so thin his lips might as well disappear from his face for good. “I met him, by the way. Akira, Ren… To think it was Makoto’s friend all this time, I can’t believe I never connected the dots.”

That’s because they weren’t in plain sight. The only dots that could have been connected had to be acquired by breaking the law, and Sae is not that kind of person. He wonders why Shido keeps her around.

“Is it true then?”

“The assault?” Sae lowers her voice. She’s probably already in the office. “According to Makoto, yes. I never knew about it.”

“What do you want me to do?” Akechi asks because that’s the only reason anyone ever calls him. And he’s ever happy to extend his usefulness.

“Nothing.” He hears a creak of her chair. He can already imagine her – yesterday’s clothes, bags under her eyes, smudged makeup. She always works so hard just not to be useless. “I guess I was so shocked when I found out about it that I decided to call you. Just to talk.”

Akechi tries to grasp the concept in his head. It seems like a lot of people lately want him to just talk.

“There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Sae is silent for a moment. “The timing is rather convenient, don’t you think? It works well for our cause, it gets rid of your rival. Kurusu… Amamiya, he’s a good guy. He really doesn’t deserve being smeared in the press like this. That case has been swept under the rug such a long time ago, and suddenly someone pulls it out like a rabbit out of a hat when we need it. Don’t you think it’s strange?”

It doesn’t look like she suspects him, so he lets her continue, somewhat amused.

“You don’t think it’s…” She says carefully, unable to finish the sentence.

Akechi doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He’s surrounded by fucking idiots and he’s on the verge of a mental breakdown.

“I don’t know what you mean,” trying to keep his voice steady. He really does want to laugh, his chest already shaking in silent laughter. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t have time for idle chatting. I have an interview at eight.”

He hangs up and finally an uncontrollable chuckle bursts out of his chest.

His life is so ridiculously stupid. It’s fucking hilarious.

If she finally realizes what’s been going on under her nose for over a decade, he might just send her flowers. Better late than never, after all. She’s such a useful little tool, just like him.

It takes him a few minutes to calm down, and when he does, he decides to check public forums.

While a huge number of people online threaten to boycott Akira’s novels, some of them, who previously weren’t interested in his writing, promised to buy all of his novels just out of curiosity.

The public is such a fickle mistress.

He can’t help but think that Shido and his team finally fucked up. It definitely didn’t do as much damage as they hoped, and Shido’s going to be pissed when he finds out. The thought gives him a strange feeling of satisfaction.

He reaches to the drawer to find a piece of paper with Akira’s number, the very same one he could never bring himself to throw away. He types a message on his phone several times. He deletes it. Then he writes it again. Deletes it.

Finally, he comes up with something he’s more or less content with.

 **Akechi:** Don’t think about it. They’re nothing.

He’s nothing.

Akira never texts him back. He suddenly thinks about Akira’s voice, the gentle baritone of it, much lower when he talks with Akechi to what he’s heard in the interview.

_What do you want your writing to be?_

He wants it to be able to kill.

_Who do you want to kill?_

Shido. His readers. Sae. Ren.

Everyone.

_What do you want to achieve?_

He wants to be able to rip people’s hearts out and crush them under his heel. He wants someone else to finally feel like a pest, like the cockroaches they are, meaningless in the mayhem he wants to create. He wants them to feel what he feels, what he’s felt for years, stuck under Shido’s thumb like a fruit fly with a very short lifespan. He hopes they all choke on his words, as he feeds on their grief.

_Why do you want it?_

He wants to infest them with his own sadness.

Akechi spends the rest of his day going through the motions. His book was released today. Ren’s book was released today. He doesn’t care about any of it.

As he shakes Shido’s hand in front of the journalist, he wonders if anyone would ever buy his books if it wasn’t for him.

He thinks about how at first Shido just wanted to make money off his silly detective novels, written by a teenage idol, just because they sold well when attached to a pretty face. He thinks about how later he was forced to write about ideologies he didn’t believe in. Rewriting history. Anything to further Shido’s dreams of a political career.

He thinks about the first time he read a novel written by Ren Amamiya, and he finished it in one sitting, allowing it to carry him away to another world.

He thinks about Amamiya’s first novel, the one he hated most.

_“I may be just a talking cat,” Morgana says. “But at least I’m free to speak my mind."_

Akechi wonders what it feels like.  
  


* * *

**  
Akira:** Can you meet me in Leblanc? It’s important.

It’s 2 am and the trains aren’t running. Akechi comes anyway because he likes having a purpose. Or maybe because Akira flipped another page in his novel, and he has to go along with the plot, like the side-character he is.

He wonders if Akira knows that he jerked off again, thinking about him in the shower. He wonders if Akira knows that he feels disgusting about it. Maybe he too gets off to it. 

He wonders if his feelings are even worth the words scribbled on a page.

When he enters Leblanc, Akira’s waiting in complete darkness.

It makes everything feel less real. He lingers, leaning against the door behind him, unable to take another step.

He can’t see his face properly. Akechi wonders if he’s stressed out about the situation. He wonders if he’s exhausted. He wonders if there are bags under his eyes. He wonders if he was even surprised or if this was the outcome he was secretly hoping for in the first place.

When Akira comes close, half-shadow, half-ghost, melting into the night, he doesn’t move away.

He lets the darkness in front of him kiss him, his back pressed against the glass.

For a moment they’re nowhere, and they’re nothing, and Akechi loses himself in the feeling.

He thinks about the wasteland. He thinks about Akira’s gentle touch, his careful hands on Akechi’s cheeks, as he leads him through the barren land.

They go upstairs to an attic, and there’s a bed there because of course there is.

It’s a space where they’re finally allowed to talk. But neither of them opens their mouth.

_You knew I was coming._

_You don’t like leaving open endings._

_How come you know so much about me?_

_From the way you form words. From the gaps between them._

_How come you know so much about me from my novels, but I don’t know anything about you?_

_It’s like you said. You don’t really like my novels. Why would you know anything about me?_

_That’s not true_ , he thinks to himself for the very first time. _I just lack the freedom to like them._

Akechi clears his throat, breaking the spell.

“Why did you text me?”

Akira sits on the bed, looking hopeful and tired. “I want to be close to you before it ends.”

“What if I don’t want it?”

“We’ve had sex before,” Akira points out. Akechi moves towards him, like a puppet on a string. He likes to think he still goes willingly.

He lets Akira straddle him because it’s only fair. His presence is suffocating, but he still mouths on Akira’s throat like it makes things easier.

“We had a quickie in a bathroom,” he reminds him matter-of-factly.

“No,” Akira mutters, biting on Akechi’s lower lip. “I told you we’ve met long before that. I told you I know you from your novels.”

“I’ve never written…”

“Doesn’t matter,” Akira grinds against him, his hard length pressing against Akechi’s, so whatever coherent thought he had, flies out the window. “Your words spoke to me… So many sleepless nights, I’d imagine your protagonist, the detective, coming through the door and fucking me raw. Your words did that to me – I’d touch myself, but it was never enough, I didn’t know what to do with myself. And then I started imagining it was you fucking me instead.”

Akechi chuckles, breathing against the sweaty skin on Akira’s neck. “Did you now?”

“It was easy enough – your face is fucking everywhere, in every newspaper, on every TV station, it was difficult not to be hard all day. But whenever I’d imagine you fucking me, you’d speak to me in those pretty words you use, not the fake ones – your real, beautiful words, the ones from your early works. And then I’d come all over myself embarrassingly fast, and feel empty because I needed you, the _real_ you.”

“Is this why you became a writer?” Akechi teases. “Just to be able to get close enough to me?”

“I became a writer,” Akira says, pulling his shirt over his head. “To make sure you fall in love with me, too.”

“How did you know I’d even read your novels?”

Akira smirks the same cat-like smirk that made Akechi following him into the bathroom that fateful night. “I already told you, so many times. It’s because we met. It’s because I know you. It’s because it’s fate.”

Akira gets impatient and he rips Akechi’s very expensive shirt, the sound of buttons hitting the ground almost deafening in the silence of the night.

Akechi wants to scold him, but Akira kisses him, all open-mouthed and hot, and he finds himself unable to push him away.

“Did you touch yourself thinking about me?” Akira purrs into his ear. There’s no point lying, he _knows._

“Yes,” Akechi yanks Akira by the hair to make him pull back. “But never when reading your novels. I’m not twisted like you.”

“You haven’t read my newest one yet, have you?”

“No, and I’m not sure I want to.”

“Shame,” Akira says, removing Akechi’s belt with his skilled hands, and pulling his zipper down. “We made love in that one.”

“S-spoilers,” Akechi stutters as Akira frees his cock from his pants, getting on his knees in front of Akechi. He licks the tip a few times before answering.

“You won’t read it otherwise,” he murmurs, and he busies his mouth with other stuff, and honestly, Akechi’s fine with that because he doesn’t know if he’d be able to stop himself from coming if Akira kept talking.

“I should add,” Akira pulls away just to drive Akechi insane. “I won’t let you fuck me until you’ve read my novel. I won’t let you, no matter how my body aches to have you inside. To have you mark me as yours, and pound me like you do in my fantasies.”

“Then what do you want to do?”

Akira smiles. He doesn’t say another word.

Akechi prefers that he doesn’t.

He lets Akira fill the page with words, and half-written sentences, his fingers on his body push into him, tapping, pulling, erasing his sense of self, like he’s just another letter on Akira’s typewriter.

His mind is still blank and no words in this world will be able to fill it with meaning.  
  


* * *

  
It only takes a few days for Shido to summon him into his office.

“Care to explain this?”

Akechi stares at the pictures Shido laid out in front of him.

Some of them are from the very first night he met Akira. Then their first meeting at Leblanc. Their second meeting, with Akechi sneaking out from the café at dawn.

He feels weirdly detached from them, so he waits for Shido to elaborate, meeting his eyes with fake ignorance.

Shido pats him on the back. It makes Akechi’s skin burn. “You actually did well.”

It’s not what he expected.

“In case you’re wondering,” Shido continues. “The photographer was one of ours. Which means we can use it to our advantage. I must say, I didn’t know you had it in you.”

So he thinks Akechi whored himself out. Right.

He blinks slowly, suddenly feeling tired. “What do you want me to do with these?”

“You’re going to say he made you do it. He poured something into your drink, he is a delinquent after all. You’ll shed some tears, maybe write some dark novel to help you deal with the experience, and then we’ll sell that.”

Shido’s always talking about his books like Akechi’s some copying machine spouting out whatever bullshit’s being put inside. Maybe he is.

He forces himself to think. “Why are you doing this?”

“It shouldn’t concern you.”

“He’s a small fry,” Akechi opposes. “Normally, you wouldn’t go out of your way just to destroy some puny writer for my sake.”

He made a mistake and he knows it the moment the words leave his mouth.

Shido smacks him in the face with an open hand. Akechi’s proud he doesn’t make a sound, even if the impact of it sends him stumbling backward.

“I never did anything for you. You do stuff for _me_. Because that is your purpose.”

Akechi stands uselessly, the pain in his cheek being the only real thing he’s feeling.

“If you really need to know, it’s not even about him. The president of his publishing company placed his bet on the wrong people. Stupid fool, as if I didn’t warn him. If I make him bankrupt, then finally I’ll be able to make certain people happy. And then…”

His words get lost in the static filling Akechi’s ears.

Akechi’s not surprised. It’s never been about him or Ren. They’re both nothing in their game.

“I despise you,” Shido spits and it catches his attention. “I despise you for looking like her, having her talent, her disgusting attitude. No wonder you’re so fucking spineless, she couldn’t even handle having you.”

Of course. He’s just an extension of another broken tool.

“If only I had your gift, I could use it well. Instead, I’m stuck with you – a stupid brat, who doesn’t know what’s good for him. You can’t even talk back to me like a man.”

He almost laughs.

Doesn’t he get it?

He doesn’t say anything, because he’s just an empty page. Empty books don’t talk.

“You have until tomorrow to make up your mind,” Shido tells him. “We already announced a press conference, so look your best. Take care of that bruise.”  
  


* * *

  
When he comes home, he finds a package on his table addressed to no one in particular. Sae must have left it, considering she’s the only one with keys to his house. It’s because he tried to kill himself that one time when he was nineteen. Shido praised him then, too.

They sold that well, and for a time, he was a rebel, a sad poet for the broken youth. Oh, how the critics loved it. Oppression of society, a paean for individualism. A brave voice among so many who are silenced. They all loved that one.

Akechi takes a bath like he always does after being in Shido’s presence. He feels sick.

Then he takes the package upstairs, placing it on his bed as if he’s trying to put it inside a frame. He already knows what’s inside, and he wants to treasure it. Just to spite Shido. Maybe to love himself.

He unwraps it carefully, staring at the cover. It’s minimalistic, unlike his usual novels. Black, like the abyss, with a few specks of red paint-like dots scattered across the surface. He runs his fingers over the title to commit it to memory.

“The Calling Card,” he reads out loud.

He opens a book and finds a dedication.

_To my rival._

He lies down and begins to read.

The book is written in the second person, which explains the title, and the dedication, though Akechi tries not to think too hard about it.

He suddenly realizes what Akira meant by understanding Akechi through his words.

With his heart open, he can sense Akira in every letter, every break in the paragraph. He knows where he stopped to think about what should come next. He knows where he hesitated over the course of action his characters should take.

He also understands when he’s being addressed directly, called out, through the pages and across time, a message from Ren who already knew he was going to meet Akechi, even if Akechi didn’t know him then.

Akechi realizes it’s not an experience that opened up to him just because of the novel. It was always there because every word Akira every set on paper was meant for Akechi’s eyes only.

He’s twisted, just like Akira is. He needs him so desperately, he wants every word to dig under his skin, until there’s nothing left, until he rewrites Akechi for his own pleasure.

Akechi unties the bathrobe and lets the silk slide off his naked arms.

He warms the lube between his fingers before cautiously pushing one inside. He discards the book, closing his eyes, the paragraph’s he’s read still ringing in his skull.

_I want to strip you, layer by layer, skin you alive as you beg for me not to stop._

_I’d let you._

_I want to see your heart, helpless where it’s trapped in your ribcage._

_It’s already yours._

_I’ll sneak in, all cat-like, while your heart struggles to get away from me, like a flightless bird._

_You already did.  
  
_

It’s unlike anything Akechi’s ever experienced, forbidden words and feelings forcibly breaking his bones, killing him from the inside with gentle ease.

The atmosphere shifts and Akechi feels Akira’s presence tower over him.

It’s like Akira’s touch replaces every movement of his body, his fingers no longer his own where they move inside him, working him open. He ruts uselessly against the sheets, gripping them with one hand and stretching himself with another, but it’s not nearly enough.

He whines pathetically, opening the drawer to get out a toy he never got to use, and almost forgot it was there. Akira takes care of him, his fingers, much longer than Akechi’s own, pumping slowly in and out of his ass.

Akira uses Akechi’s hand again to guide the dildo between his spread legs, and he pushes it in, slowly, and deliberately, because even in his fantasies, Akira would be gentle with him, because he’s a better man than Akechi will ever be.

He moans as it stretches him open, inch by inch, letting Akira fill his blankness with words.

_Are you comfortable?_

His own hands seem somewhat far away, the toy replaced by real Akira, he’s sure of it, and he can feel Akira everywhere, moving inside him, panting against his neck, whispering words of praise that he desperately needs.

_Roll over on your stomach._

Akechi does, lifting his hips and spreading his knees for Akira to admire.

He always looks at Akechi with absolute adoration. Like there are things about him that are worth admiring, despite the fact he already knows Akechi is nothing but a fraud. It’s so ridiculously wonderful that it can only be fiction.

_Do you want me to come inside you?_

“Please,” Akechi whimpers. “Make me yours.”

_You’re already mine. You always have been._

He pushes inside him one last time.

Akechi comes into his hand and he’s no longer able to tell if it’s Akira’s or Ren’s name that’s on his lips when he does.

In the novel, they make love, just like Akira promised they would.  
  


* * *

  
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Sae asks. She looks concerned, but she doesn’t seem eager to stop him – she knows him well enough to know he’s already made up his mind.

“Yes,” he confirms. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

“Think about everything you’ve built. Think about…”

“Shido? The company?” Akechi snorts. “You know, you’ve known me for such a long time, but you don’t really get it. You see, I remember when writing was just an escape from the shitty reality I lived in. The group homes, foster families, all that shit that I wouldn’t be able to handle otherwise. Maybe it’s high time I made an actual escape.”

“Escape?”

Akechi’s lips twist into a wry smile. “Who knows, maybe I’ll become a yamabushi?”

“Yamabushi?” Sae repeats with eyes widened. She probably thinks he went insane, and maybe she’s right.

“One of those ascetic monks who live in the mountains,” Akechi explains, smiling fondly as he realizes it’s something he found out from Akira’s novels. “Worst case scenario, I’ll get eaten by a bear.”

_Is this an ending you want for me, Akira?_

_I just want you to be free._

_Free from what? Shido’s influence, or your narrative?_

_Both._

_What’s the ending then?_

_You know I prefer them open._

_Why are you so indecisive? Why don’t you just end it?_

_Because I want you to have a choice._

Sae’s voice pulls him back into reality.

“I know who they are, just…!” She closes her eyes, and he can almost see her count slowly from one to ten in her head. “Akechi, you’re ruining your whole career. Is it really worth it? You’re so talented, you know that Shido won’t…”

“The career I had wasn’t worth a dime,” Akechi snorts, shaking his head. “He’s always been there, whispering into my ear, deciding what I should or should not write about. It should have been his name on those covers. I’m done writing to please other people.”

Sae doesn’t look convinced, so he continues:

“Believe in my talent, Sae. I think I might… I might just have an idea for another novel. Even if Shido makes sure it will never see the light of day, I still want to write it. Even if it’s for his eyes only.”

“Is he coming then?” She asks, her shoulders visibly relaxing. “Wherever you’re going?”

“I don’t plan on seeing him again,” Akechi states, suddenly feeling confident. “It’s why I’m leaving, and I don’t want anyone to be able to find me. Not you, not him. Our relationship is special, however. We’ll never really be apart. No matter how far apart we are, my words will always be able to reach him.”

“What do you mean?”

Akechi smiles, and it’s the first time he smiled just because he wanted to. “We’ll keep finding each other between the pages, between the hidden lines that only we’ll be able to understand. The critics will crack their heads over symbolism, they’ll put words in our mouths that aren’t there. But because we’re rivals… We’ll be the only ones to fully grasp the meaning.”

Akechi gives Sae one last confident smile before adjusting his jacket. He pushes the curtain aside and lowers his head, as the flashes of cameras blind his vision and make his world vanish in the hue of white light, heading towards an unknown ending.

_

_No, he had never written about Paris. Not the Paris that he cared about. But what about the rest that he had never written?_

Ernest Hemingway, “The Snows of Kilimanjaro”

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhere on the horizon - "The Garden of Light" written by Goro Akechi. 
> 
> Come talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/akihmorn).


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